


The Odds

by nagi_schwarz



Series: The Oppenheimer Effect [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, Any, housesitting." In which Atlantis was never found, Rodney McKay is at a science conference with Sam Carter and Bill Lee, Cassie Fraiser fails at house-sitting, and John Sheppard and his house of USAF/SGC rejects rescue Oppenheimer the Cat. Set approximately at the same time as Bounty in Season 10 of SG-1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odds

Rodney knew he shouldn’t have trusted a teenager with house-sitting while he was away at the annual science exhibition with Carter and Lee. The most irritating thing about going to these conferences - for him - was coming face-to-face with some of his old colleagues and having to pretend that the amazing alien tech he was working with didn’t quite work. Carter, having been in the Stargate program for a decade now, was so much better at all this secrecy. Rodney had only been working for the USAF for five years, and a good chunk of that was either at Area 51 or in Russia till he apologized to Carter for the Teal’c-in-the-gate incident and was allowed back to the hallowed halls of The Mountain itself, and he’d never been allowed to come to conferences before. So having to deal with smirks from the likes of Tunney and Tyson and Bill Nye was irritating to the extreme. Lee was enthusiastic about the singles scene, of all things. Carter handled everything with aplomb, wore a pair of glasses and didn’t even wear her dress service blues because she was trying to look as scientific and non-threatening as possible. Rodney never wanted to play poker with her.

So he was sitting with Sam at the hotel restaurant, watching Lee somehow ingratiate himself into a cluster of beautiful women who immediately began plying him with drinks, when his phone began to buzz.

A text message from an unfamiliar number appeared.

_Is this your cat?_

A picture of Rodney’s cat Oppenheimer appeared below the message. Oppenheimer was a ragdoll and lolling calmly in the hands of some stranger. Rodney peered at the photo. He didn’t recognize the hands. They belonged to a man.

That wasn’t right at all. Cassie Frasier had agreed to house-sit for him and keep an eye on Oppenheimer while she was home on Spring Break. Sure she was Janet Fraiser’s daughter. She was also a teenager. She was probably out partying and not watching the house at all. As evidenced by some stranger with his hands all over poor Oppenheimer, who didn’t have it in his nature to protest being picked up.

_Found him wandering around our neighborhood. Took him to the address listed on his tag. House appeared empty. Neighbor said you’re out of town for a conference. Didn’t want to take him to the shelter. Holding on to him till you get back. Reply by text to this number to confirm this is your cat. Send food and care instructions._

Before Rodney could reply, Tyson, Tunney, and Nye appeared beside their table, and Rodney had to pocket his phone so he could concentrate on dealing with their smug arrogance. Carter didn’t do much to back him up. In fact, she kept asking Tunney to tell more embarrassing stories about Rodney from his grad school days.

By the time the next conference panel was beginning, Rodney was steaming mad and only had time to dash off a _Yes, that’s my cat_ before he had to go splash cold water on his face so he would be calm enough to present.

After the last panel of the day - Rodney had moderated one, presented on two, and helped Lee with his demonstration in a third - it was time to head to the conference mixer. Rodney didn’t feel like mixing with anyone. Watching Lee collect phone numbers the way strippers collected dollar bills was disheartening. Watching Carter calmly fend off passes from men was depressing.

So Rodney found a corner and went to unlock his phone and check all the emails his department was likely bombarding him with, given that he’d had to leave Zelenka in charge, when Carter said, 

“Is that your boyfriend? He’s handsome.”

It was no secret on base that Rodney was bi, and because he was a scientist, anyone who had negative opinions about it could go boil themselves in oil. He worked for the USAF, but he wasn’t one of their unfortunately repressed soldiers. Things at the SGC would probably run a lot smoother if O’Neill and Jackson could just make out in lieu of an argument once in a while.

But that was neither here nor there, because on his lock screen was a photo of a very attractive man - wild dark hair, bright gray-hazel eyes - cuddling Oppenheimer. With the photo was another text message.

_Your cat misses you!_

Oppenheimer was curled around the man’s arm - he had nice forearms, dusting of dark hair, wearing a black wristband - like he was happy as a clam. Traitor.

Rodney gaped at the man’s gall, attractive though he was.

“No, he’s not my boyfriend,” Rodney muttered. “Like I could be so lucky. I’m sorry, Carter, I have to handle something.” He ducked out of the convention hall and headed for a quiet, shadowed alcove. He unlocked his phone, winced when he saw fifty-three unread emails in his inbox, and went straight for the text messages. He scrolled up to the oldest message after his brief reply.

_We decided to shoot high on accommodations._

There was a photo of two silver feeding dishes, one full of water, one full of cat food, and a stack of Fancy Feast cat food tins on an unfamiliar kitchen counter.

_Oppie is very friendly._

The next photo was of Oppenheimer sprawled across the lap of the handsome spiky-haired man while he sat on a couch beside at least two other men who Rodney couldn’t quite make out. The three of them were holding video game controllers.

Oh no. Oppenheimer had been kidnapped by some kind of frat house. Although the handsome man looked about Rodney’s age, maybe a few years younger.

_Oppie is open to all kinds of new experiences._

The third photo was of Oppenheimer curled placidly on the belly of a man wearing grease-stained coveralls who was on his back and looked like he’d just slid out from beneath a fancy old muscle car. The man had short brown hair and blue eyes and could be mistaken for Daniel Jackson in bad light. His expression was amused and a little resigned as he patted Oppenheimer with one hand.

In the next photo, the man was heaving himself into a wheelchair, his legs hanging oddly, while Oppenheimer rode on his shoulders. The man also looked about Rodney’s age.

_Oppie has great appreciation for fine art._

And yet another photo of Oppenheimer, this time stretched out along the top of an easel while a man - also handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed - laughed and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. A half-finished oil painting was on the canvas, and the man had a palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.

Apparently a house full of handsome men had found Rodney’s cat. Not Rodney, just his cat.

_Oppie loves the stars._

And still another photo of Oppenheimer, this time curled across the broad shoulders of a boy, who looked no more than eighteen, while he was fiddling with a telescope on a balcony.

And there, that last photo of the handsomest man of them all, cuddling Oppenheimer and smiling at the camera.

All of the text messages came from the same number, so either all of the men were sharing a phone or this was some kind of group exercise, staging a ridiculous photo shoot with a stranger’s cat.

Rodney scanned back up to the photo of the man in the wheelchair and wondered what a bunch of seemingly single men and a teenager were doing in a house together, that they had nothing better to do on a Monday than play video games, paint, work on cars, and have a photo shoot with his cat.

Apparently they had the money to buy ridiculous amounts of very fancy cat food for Oppenheimer. Rodney wondered if his cat would have a jeweled collar like a Bond Villain cat when he got home.

Rodney was about to fire off a text message to the men, thanking them for watching his cat, confirming that their choice of cat food was fine but Oppenheimer would submit to cheaper food, and letting them know when he would be back in town and he would reimburse them for their assistance, when his phone rang.

It was Cassie Fraser.

“Dr. McKay! I got home and Oppenheimer’s nowhere to be found! I called the shelter and they don’t have him and the neighbors said some strange men have kidnapped him! Should I call the police?”

“No,” Rodney said tiredly. “Thanks for letting me know. I’m actually in communication with the men who have him. They got my number off the tag on his collar. He’s fine with them till I get home. Go. Enjoy your spring break.”

“Are you sure? I --”

“Really. You’re young. Go. Have fun. Just stop by and check the mail and water the plants once a day, all right?”

“I will. I’m so sorry -”

“It’s fine. I have to go, Cassie.” Rodney hung up and opened up the text app on his phone.

_Thanks for watching him. House-sitter didn’t pan out, apparently. Home late Saturday. Can I pick him up Sunday? I’ll pay you back. He’ll eat pretty cheap cat food. I’m Rodney McKay, by the way._

_Yay! You’re alive! Oppie was starting to get worried._

This was accompanied by a brief selfie of the handsome man and Oppenheimer, faces crowded close together.

_No problem. We bachelors are enjoying the company. I’m John Sheppard._

John Sheppard. Rodney filed that away for later. And he was a bachelor, to boot. Chances of him being gay or bi were, of course, minimal.

Another photo popped up, of John’s housemates - the wheelchair-bound one, the painter, the teenager, all crowded together on the couch with video game controllers and grinning.

_L-R Cam Mitchell, Evan Lorne, JD Nealson._

_Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Guardians of the Cat._ Rodney could be polite over the phone.

Something about their names was familiar. Mostly Cam Mitchell. He wasn’t sure why. He pocketed his phone and returned to the convention hall. Lee was still surrounded by women. Carter was embroiled in a conversation with several older men in shiny military uniforms. Her expression was calm and polite, but Rodney recognized the flinty look in her eyes.

He strode toward her, cleared his throat. “Pardon me, sirs. Colonel Carter, might I have a word?”

“Dr. McKay, of course. Excuse me, sirs.” Carter dipped her chin respectfully, then allowed Rodney to tug her aside.

“Thank you,” she said. “Some days I wish I was a civilian. Less trouble for punching a general.”

“Right,” Rodney said. “Look, does the name Cam Mitchell mean anything to you?”

Her eyes went wide. “It should mean something to you. He was the leader of the F-302 squadron that fought off Anubis and helped save this planet for the Goa’uld forever. Why?”

Rodney fished his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, showed her the last photo he received.

“Oh, Cam,” she said softly. “He never recovered after his fighter crashed in Antarctica. He’s paraplegic, lost his legs, just like his father. He received a medical discharge.” And then she frowned, peered closer at the photo. “Is that Major Lorne?”

“Evan Lorne?” Rodney asked.

“He was on SG-11, with the Unas mining operation,” Carter said, keeping her voice low. “Before Daniel worked out the treaty with the Unas, the Unas kidnapped one of the other surveyors and - well. Lorne found his body. He didn’t handle it well. He also got a medical discharge. And - oh.”

“Oh?” Rodney echoed. Carter actually sounded - sad.

“That’s Duplicate O’Neill.”

“Excuse me?” Rodney peered at the photo.

Carter pointed to the teenager. “Three years ago, a rogue Asgard named Loki kidnapped O’Neill and cloned him. The clone came out wrong - a teenager. All of O’Neill’s memories in a tiny teenage body. He’s what - eighteen, now? Biologically.”

JD Nealson. Son of Neal.

O’Neill.

“Where did you get this photo?” Carter asked.

“It was sent to me by one John Sheppard.” Rodney showed her the photo she’d been admiring earlier.

“So, not your boyfriend.”

“No. Cassie fails at house-sitting and Oppenheimer escaped the house, and apparently John and his roommates found him. They agreed to watch him till I get home.”

“John Sheppard,” Carter murmured to herself. “Oh! I remember him. He, Cam, and Lorne were all a couple of years behind me at flight school. Cam was fixed-wing combat, like me. Lorne was fixed-wing transport. And Sheppard was rotor.”

“So it’s a bunch of SGC rejects in one house?” Rodney asked.

“No,” Carter said. “Sheppard was never SGC. He was a chopper pilot in A-stan around the same time Cam was flying missions there. After Cam got pulled in to command the Snakeskinners, Sheppard was ordered to rescue three of his downed comrades. He took enemy fire. Chopper crashed. Comrades didn’t make it. The locals held him for a few days till the brass bargained for his return. He also took a medical discharge. Can never fly again.”

“How do you know all this?” Rodney asked.

“There aren’t that many elite pilots in the world, Rodney. We’re all trained at the same place. It’s like high school. We keep tabs on each other. I hear Sheppard’s a brilliant mathematician.” Carter’s expression was wistful. “At least they can keep each other company.” She smoothed her thumb over the image of Duplicate O’Neill.

“Think any of them will recognize me when I go get my cat?”

“O’Neill will.”

“Think any of them know who he really is?”

“Lorne probably does.” Carter handed back his phone. “They’ll take good care of your cat. They can save a planet or a whole galaxy - they can handle one cat. Thanks for the rescue.” She turned away.

Rodney stared at the photo on his phone, of all three men grinning - and Duplicate O’Neill reaching out to do something devious to Mitchell’s video game controller - and wondered what the odds were, that they’d found his cat.

Pretty slim.

What were the odds that John Sheppard might be interested in a man like Rodney?

Also pretty slim.

But Rodney was feeling pretty lucky.


End file.
